


Like A Splinter

by silvereyedotaku



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Car Sex, Come Marking, Deepthroating, Dom/sub Undertones, Dry Humping, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Very Mild Exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 01:04:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21170885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvereyedotaku/pseuds/silvereyedotaku
Summary: “They don’t know who you really are. Wouldn’t you expect their faces to crumple in disbelief if they were told? Can youimaginethe way they’d look at you? How scared they'd be?” Fuches’ grip loosened for a second, fingers sliding further up Barry’s arm. “If they knew, they’d run for the hills. But I know all of it, every last detail, and I still look out for you."or, an alternate ending to the party at Natalie's in 1x04





	Like A Splinter

**Author's Note:**

> I AM DISGUSTING, OKAY. Don’t roast me for self-indulgence or my excessively long sentences, please. Right, now that's out of the way.
> 
> Set when Fuches interrupts Barry at the party but after he tries to give Sally the laptop, [after Barry yells at Fuches on the golf course and tells him he’s quitting their hitman shit for good (02:58)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7O-tv2GURjM). I haven’t watched beyond s1e4 at the time of writing this, so I'm sorry if this contradicts the larger timeline, plot, or how the character's interact later in the season.

Fuches handed him the little envelope of information on the Bolivian stash-house and told him to put it in his car. Barry knew he would - he’d do almost anything to get rid of Fuches, to get him out of the same airspace as Sally and the acting class.

“You know I’m only ever trying to protect you, Barry.” 

Fuches, face still scabbing and bruised, was about the ugliest thing Barry had ever seen, in that moment. He needed to get him out of there before he could do some serious damage. If worst came to worst, he could always force him outside - but he couldn’t get violent in front of his friends. Fuck, he could feel hysteria bubbling in his stomach. 

Fuches watched, bemused. Barry could tell from his smug smile that he knew exactly how helpless he was. It seemed impossible that Fuches and the new Barry, the one who wore J. Crew and dated Sally, could exist together in the same place, and the constant threat of his identity being announced was making him jittery with anxiety.

Behind the mock good-humour, there was some real annoyance in Fuches’ expression. He knew that he had the upper hand, but under the surface he was still angry that Barry would think to question him in the first place. “Why don’t we chew the fat outside for a second? Can we do that?” 

Barry took a deep breath. “Fuches, please just leave. You can’t be here.” He made an effort to put force into his words. “I’m fucking serious, man, leave.”

Fuches just chuckled coldly, fully aware of how he’d backed him into a corner. “Only if you come and talk to me outside. C’mon.” 

Barry’s eyes darted around, trying to see if anyone was paying attention to them. Obviously his situational awareness wasn’t at its best, if he hadn’t even noticed Fuches tailing him. It was because he’d been distracted with Sally and Jon Hamm and their perfect future life together. God, _where_ had he put that laptop?

Fuches gave him a knowing look. “You’re making this really tough for me, Barry. I mean, two seconds ago I found out you lied to me about quitting that class or yours, and now you’re refusing to even talk to me? Come on, don’t upset me.” 

Barry’s feet moved independently from his brain, on some sort of survival instinct prompted by the subtle warning, carrying him out of the party and out of Natalie's house. He didn’t need to glance behind him to know Fuches was following. 

They reached their cars and Barry paused, unsure of what Fuches wanted him to do. 

“Now.” He turned at the sound of Fuches’ voice, to find him unlocking the car he’d come in. “Why don’t you tell me what the cause of that little argument on the golf course was?” 

Barry rubbed his temples, willing the thudding to stop. “Nothing, I was just thinking about where I want to be-“

“And you don’t want to be here with me, is that it?” Fuches seemed genuinely hurt. He felt a stab of guilt.

“No, that's not what I meant. I just think you should go back to Ohio-”

Fuches shushed him, climbing into the car and motioning for Barry to join him. It was only when Barry had rounded the car and climbed in himself that the doors shut, cutting off all outside sound. 

“Listen, Barry. I know you’re not telling the truth._ Y__ou _know you’re not telling the truth.” His hand was across the seat in an instant, clasping Barry’s forearm in his fist. “So why don’t you just tell me what actually prompted our little altercation?” 

Barry squirmed in his seat. Every year of combat training he'd endured was telling him exactly how to twist Fuches’ arm to get out of the hold, and it was taking everything he had to repress the urge. He didn’t want to hurt Fuches, not really, he just didn’t want him around the acting class. 

As always, the second he’d started talking, Barry had felt a fog descend over himself, resolve wavering. He still didn’t want to be the pushover Mr Cousineau seemed to be convinced he was, but he didn’t realistically see Fuches just leaving him alone after a couple of stern words. He was at a loss for what to do.

He was brought back into the moment by Fuches’ nails digging into him through his new blazer. He fidgeted, willing himself not to snap the other man’s fingers.

Fuches, as if sensing his thought process, leaned closer still, daring him to resort to violence, and confident that he wouldn’t. “Oh, do you think this is who you are? You think you’re the type of person who wears shit like this and talks to shit like them?”

“You don’t get it, they’re good people-“ he tried, before he was cut off by a harsh laugh.

“Face it, they don’t _know_ you, Barry. Do you think they’d be treating you like this if they knew who you really were? Do you think they’d still want to be your friend?”

“I-” Barry felt his throat tighten.

“They don’t know what you’re really like. They don't know all the things you’ve done. Wouldn’t you expect their faces to crumple in disbelief as they were told? Can you _imagine _the way they’d look at you? How scared they'd be of you?” 

He shook his head weakly, trying to ignore the way the questions played on his mind. “Stop it. I don’t know what you’re getting at, but-“

“Oh, don't play dumb. You know exactly what I’m talking about, Barry. Don’t pretend otherwise.” Fuches’ grip loosened for a second, fingers sliding further up Barry’s arm. “If they knew the things you’d done, they’d run for the hills. But I know all of it, every last detail, and I still look out for you. And you respond by yelling in my face?” 

His words were starting to make an awful lot of sense. “Sorry.” Barry murmured. “But you can’t follow me again, man. I don’t want to get them involved.”

“Isn’t that noble of you?” Fuches intoned. “If you don’t want them to be involved, then tell me, what gave the idea to quit on me?” Barry muttered something unintelligible. “What was that?”

“Mr Cousineau said that I should stop following orders and- And I should stop being deferential to everyone but myself.” He gathered the courage to glance upwards.

“I see. It was this acting class that gave the idea, huh? Seems to me like they’ve gotten _themselves _involved.” Fuches’ tone was dangerous, but the look on his face was worse. 

“Yeah- yeah it was, but it’s not like they said to-“

“No, of course you would listen to a couple of people you’ve known for seven days over me, who’s been around for how long?”

Barry stared at his feet, Fuches’ hand on his upper arm. 

“Barry, you know all I want is to take care of you. Let me do that, for your dad, yeah?”

And there it was. 

Trained responses were a part of every Marine’s internal system, and even those that were taught casually and out of the line of duty were pretty difficult to resist. Fuches was all too familiar with this concept, and had taken full advantage of it. After years of subtle adjustments, all it took was a couple of words to send Barry spiraling into regret. He felt terrible instantly. 

“I’m sorry, that’s not what I was trying to...” He trailed off, unsure of where to go from here.

“You know I always have your best interests at heart, right, Barry?” His grip tightened again. “Right?” 

“Right.” Barry nodded. Fuches relaxed a little.

“I’m glad to hear it. We make a good team, Barry. It’s like me and your dad in ‘Nam. We looked out for each other like I’m looking out for you now. You get that, don't you?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, I’m glad we agree.” 

He let out a sigh of relief when Fuches removed his hand, only to stifle a yelp as it stroked his upper thigh. “Fuches, don’t-“

“What is it?” His hand strayed further upwards. 

Barry inhaled sharply as the older man clasped his dick through his trousers, slightly too rough for it to be pleasurable. 

“Are you scared that your new friends will come out and see you like this? Don’t worry, the windows are blacked out. Although,” He clenched his hand for emphasis, “I could always open a door.”

“No! Don’t open a door, Fuches I- What the fuck? Here? Are you fucking serious?”

“Are you serious about acting?” he asked solemnly. 

”I- What does that mean?” Barry answered slowly, processing the abrupt turn in conversation. “Yeah, of course I’m serious.” Despite his protests, he didn’t move when Fuches began undoing his khakis. He couldn’t let himself untense. If he uncoiled his muscles and let himself lash out, Fuches would be losing some teeth.

“Have you been in LA long, Barry?” 

Barry furrowed his brow. “What? No. You know how long I’ve been here.” 

“Mm. Not long at all. So I guess you’re not properly versed in Hollywood culture.”

“I mean I- Hey-“ Barry stuttered as Fuches slipped his fingers into his underwear - also brand new from J. Crew - and ran his hand firmly over Barry’s dick. “I guess not,” he finished, choked. Paranoia kept sending him glancing around frantically, in case someone walked up to the car and heard them. 

“Mm. You don’t understand it at all. So I’ll let you in on a little secret. How do you think people get roles in this city?”

“Uh.” Barry was trying his very hardest to focus on the question. Fuches’ hand rubbed at his cock, palm so rough with calluses that it made Barry shiver. “They get agents and then they go to auditions, and try out for parts. And they go to acting class.”

“No, they don’t. Do you know how most people get offers? Do you want to know the key to being successful?” His head hit the seat behind him as Fuches moved his hand again. “You fuck the right person - usually the casting director.”

Barry’s mind spluttered to a stop. “What?” 

“Oh, you thought it was just going to be handed to you on a silver platter, because a couple of people told you that you had something special?” Fuches clearly read Barry’s response, because he softened a little. “You haven’t even been to an audition. Do you think you know what you’re getting into?”

Barry didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t know what to say to any of this, to Sally’s insistence that she was a person (he knew she was a person, why would she think he didn’t?) or to Fuches turning up on his friend’s doorstep. 

This time, when he was pawed at, he forced himself to relax. He let Fuches’ other hand slide up to his shoulder, pushing down. He sunk tiredly onto the floor of the car, his fucking satchel still strapped across his chest. Fuches’ fingers were rough but coaxing, as they always were, massaging Barry’s shoulders as he pushed him between his legs. 

“I just don’t want you to get out of your depth. We both know what it’s like when that happens.” 

Barry looked at the floor. Yeah, they did. It was easier to forget, now his thoughts were full of acting and new possibilities, but it was always lurking there under the surface - the emptiness, the ache of how alone he was, with the days blending together into one unconquerable blur. 

Fuches smiled down at him, the intensity of his gaze like a physical touch. If Barry focused, he could still see the slightly awkward way Fuches held his mouth, avoiding the sawed-off tooth. He pinched Barry’s shirt collar.

They stared at each other. Then, as cautious as a trainer approaching a wild animal, Fuches slowly petted his hair. 

“I don't want you want to be forced into this position by some bigwig Hollywood exec, you know?”

“Come on, man. I don’t wanna talk about that,” Barry muttered.

“I don’t think you’d want that though, would you?” he pushed.

Barry shook his head reluctantly, Fuches’ hand cupping the back of his neck and guiding the movement like a puppet master. 

Fuches patted his cheek like he was an unruly kid, ruffling his hair. “I knew you’d understand. You always understand, don’t you? You’re my boy.” 

Barry felt his eyelids droop at the words. The pleasant ache of arousal was suddenly creeping its way up his throat, quickening his breathing. Another taught response. 

“Yeah, you’re still my boy, aren’t you?” Fuches hummed, pleased with the reaction he was eliciting. He drew back for the killer blow. “You’re my good boy, Barry.”

Barry’s breath caught in his throat and in the dim light of the car, his cheeks flushing scarlet were just visible. He bit the inside of his cheek.

“You like that, don’t you? You like being good for me?” Fuches teased.

Barry buried his face in the other man’s knee, trying to smother the moan that clawed its way out of his mouth. He was getting hard. Fuches chuckled good-naturedly, soothing him. “It’s okay bud, I’ve got you. I’ll always have your back.” He smirked when he felt Barry biting the fabric of his trousers, trying to keep the weak, needy sounds muffled. 

The back of Barry’s neck was prickling with heat, and when Fuches ran a hand through his hair and pulled, he groaned. He let himself be prised off of Fuches’ leg, so he could no longer hide his face. The other man seemed more than satisfied with what he found, Barry’s eyes glassy and his lips reddened from the rough fabric of the jeans he’d mouthed at. 

“C’mon bud.” He gestured to his belt, and Barry reached up to unbuckle it, shaking a little. His own khakis were still half undone from Fuches’ previous actions, leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable. 

Fuches noticed and shifted one of his legs forward, nestling it between Barry’s thighs. 

He froze, resisting the urge to cant his hips forwards against the newfound pressure. Fuches gestured to where Barry’s hands had stilled against his hips, not acknowledging the way he had Barry straddling his leg like a dog.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he murmured, pulling his own cock free of its confines. Barry gulped. 

Fuches grabbed at himself, shameless as he watched Barry with sharp eyes. His dick was as thick and heavy as ever, precome already beading at the end of it from the sight of Barry on his knees.

He tried to regulate his breathing like he’d been taught, then leaned forwards to lick the tip. It was just like the hits he carried out; start easy, work up to big challenges. It always tasted a little funny at first, but, as Fuches had told him the first time they’d done this, it was an acquired taste. By moving forward, he inadvertently ground his hips up against Fuches’ shin, sending a stab of arousal up his spine. He gasped against the older man’s dick. 

Fuches rubbed soothing circles into his scalp as he huffed out a groan. 

“C’mon, kid,” Fuches whispered, using his grip on Barry’s hair to pull him forward. He opened his mouth obediently, letting Fuches push into him. The salty weight across his tongue was a familiar one - he’d lost count of the amount of times they’d done this. It was basically instinct at this point, as practiced as the squeeze of the trigger. 

He breathed through his nose, hollowing his cheeks and sucking, earning himself an approving sound. He sunk down on the cock in front of him, licking at the underside like he’d been told to do. Fuches knotted his fingers through Barry’s hair, suddenly pulling him back until he was only holding the head in his mouth. He smiled down at Barry. “You’re so good for me, you know?” he said. “At everything. At our work, at this, at all of it. You’re amazing.” 

Barry felt his eyes roll back, moaning. He had to pull off of Fuches’ dick because he was so overwhelmed, gasping at the words. His own cock was practically throbbing against Fuches’ calf, and he had no doubt that the way he jerked at the praise didn’t go unnoticed. 

Fuches carded a hand through his hair, stroking his face, smiling fondly at Barry grinding against his leg, resting his forehead on the older man’s thigh again as he worked his hips back and forth, desperation making him lose his inhibitions. 

He forgot about the party, about Sally’s cutting words, about the acting class as a whole. The only thing that existed at that moment was Fuches and the fingers clenched in his hair, in that dark, sweaty car. 

“Fuck...” he sighed, still rubbing himself against Fuches’ shin. It hadn’t occurred to him that he could use his own hands, resting on the car seat; he’d just taken what he’d been given, what had been instructed without words.

“Barry, hey. Hey.” He was called back to the present by Fuches’ gravelly voice. He was staring at Barry with a mixture of humour and arousal, gaze fixed on his fluttering eyelids, so turned on he couldn’t keep them open. 

Fuches didn’t even have to say anything, he spelled it out in perfectly clear terms with one glance from Barry’s mouth to his own dick. 

Barry dived forwards, mind too foggy with pleasure to think about how he was going to regret this, how this was two steps backwards and how he was going to question what this meant for him, why he was enjoying it. 

He took Fuches between his lips again. They were tingling with the stretch, but he only forced himself further, until he was gagging. Fuches nudged his shoulders, easing up the pressure in his throat. 

“Hey, hey, slow down,” Fuches told him, pushing his leg firmer against the Barry’s crotch to distract him. He let him lower his mouth down his shaft, slower this time. Soon Barry reached the base, the fullness in his throat pleasant this time.

“That’s better. Just like that.” Fuches praised, fingers ghosting over where Barry’s lips were slicked with saliva and precome, spread around the shaft. “You’re so good for me. Do you like being like this? You like choking on my cock? You like being a good boy?” 

Barry’s body burned with profound embarrassment. He wanted to cover his face and sink into the floor and disappear, but Fuches’ grasp kept him grounded and swallowing around his dick, too distracted to properly think about the humiliation.

He grunted, hips moving minutely as Barry bobbed his head. He thrust into Barry’s mouth ever so slightly, testing his limits like he always did.

Barry was getting close. He could feel it creeping up on him like a hot ache, moaning as it pulled him out of his body, until all he could do was quiver against Fuches, close to overstimulation and yet miles from satisfied. 

It was all too much, too many feelings at once, his cock pulsing from the rough movements and his mouth forced open by Fuches. The constant onslaught of sensations was blurring his vision and he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe - until Fuches hunched over him, growling in his ear.

“Let go, Barry. You can let go.” 

Barry thrust forwards one more time. He came with a breathless cry, squeezing his eyes shut and pulling back off of Fuches’ dick to moan, making a mess of both of their trousers. “Fuches,” he whined, hips finally stilling against the older man’s leg. 

“Good boy.” Fuches tangled his hand through Barry’s mussed hair, settling the other under his chin. He tilted his face up to see the colour of his cheeks, how his neck was beginning to redden and his bottom lip, bitten and shining with saliva. How was he expected to resist a sight like that? 

Barry was coming down from the aftershocks of his orgasm, still twitching and a little bleary, when he felt Fuches grasp his chin, angling him so he was facing his crotch. He realised why when Fuches shoved forwards, between his parted lips. 

He’d had them open without noticing, his body knowing what Fuches had wanted before he had. 

Fuches set up a fast pace, thrusting in earnest now. He hit the back of Barry’s throat a couple of times, but he was so boneless and exhausted from coming that he couldn’t even find the energy to react. He just let Fuches push and pull him by his hair, using him however he wanted. 

He continued fucking Barry’s mouth, hips lifting off the car seat with how hard he was thrusting. “Fuck- Take it.”

Without warning Barry was yanked off of his cock, and he only had a second to process why before something splattered across his cheeks and mouth. 

Some of it ran down onto his tongue and he grimaced at the salty bitterness, but swallowed anyway, like Fuches usually told him to. There had been no prompting this time. 

He squinted up at Fuches, who rubbed his dick over Barry’s swollen lips, collecting the cum and smearing it over his chin. Fuches’ eyes were screwed shut and his voice was low, but Barry caught what he said as he climbed down from his orgasm, pleasure loosening his tongue. “You’re mine. Always.”

The thought made Barry’s stomach drop with unanticipated panic. Being Fuches’ - suddenly he couldn’t think of anything he dreaded more. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard those words by any means, but they had acted as a comfort blanket before, not something that kickstarted his fight-or-flight response. 

Sometimes, in those long stretches of nothingness, Fuches had been the only face he’d seen asides from his own in the bathroom mirror, and that promise, that Barry belonged to something, had felt like a mantra. His conversations with Fuches had been the only break he got from the endless monotony. 

It had been so easy to allow it to hollow him out, fill his head with concrete, and to sink further and further into inactivity; and then before he knew it, half a year had passed without him stepping a foot outside. When his mindless routine of video games and lying on his bed in his underwear, staring at the ceiling and his old Metallica poster, had been slowly dragging him under, seeing Fuches was like nothing he could even describe. 

But now it felt like a curse, like what he’d already feared was being confirmed - that Fuches was stuck under his skin permanently, and he was never going to be able to stop hurting people, _ killing _people in cold blood. 

Their eyes met and everything he wanted to say was there in that look. Barry felt his anxiety and his frustration bleeding from his eyes like tears, and what he wanted to scream was crystal clear to Fuches and himself: _ he didn’t want to be Fuches’_. The acting class was somewhere he belonged now. He couldn’t be a part of that if he was chained to someone pushing him into murder.

He felt the pads of Fuches’ fingers trace where the cum had dripped down his jaw and started to get tacky, wiping it away. Every drying smudge that was removed felt like a weight lifted from his shoulders, until he was floating above himself and into another space. When it was cleaned away, there was going to be nothing that marked him as Fuches’ - except, he realised, the little yellow envelope sitting in his jacket, detailing the raid he had to carry out. Fuck. There was always one more job. A thin strand of Fuches’ cum reached his shirt collar, sinking into the cotton, staining the dark fabric white.

He crumpled, that fragile bit of hope gone in an instant. Fuches was watching him like he could see exactly what was going on inside Barry’s head - and unfortunately, he probably could.

He stopped wiping Barry’s face, running a thumb over his jaw. “What, did I get a little dirty at the end there for you?”

Barry blinked. He didn’t understand. They both knew that it wasn’t Fuches’ foul mouth that was cycling through his mind. 

Fuches was staring at him expectantly. “Was it too much for you? I can get carried away.”

Then he got it. Fuches was giving him an out and an opportunity not to discuss the anger and resentment he’d just thrown in Fuches’ face with that glare. He grabbed it with both hands. “It was a bit much.” he said, voice croaking from the strain. 

It sounded fake to his own ears, but Fuches nodded like he understood, and helped him up off of his knees. Barry caught a glimpse of his own cum, still covering Fuches’ jeans. 

“Sorry, kid. I’ll reign it in next time.” 

Oh. Of course. Even when Fuches was being generous and choosing not to poke at the trepidation he’d seen in Barry’s gaze, he couldn’t resist saying that. Because _ of course _ there would be a next time. They both know there would be; Fuches knew when he’d won and Barry knew when he’d lost.

Funny how it always seemed to work out that way.

**Author's Note:**

> S/o to V for telling me to write about cum-marking & leg humping when I asked them for ideas.
> 
> Pls leave a comment or kudos if u enjoyed, they're like instant serotonin.
> 
> I hv serious fic-commitment issues so no promises, but I might force myself to write some better, more informed stuff when I've finished the series, cos Barry is criminally lacking in fics!


End file.
